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There is no effing way in a quadrillion years

You are the exact opposite of want. I tell you this in between eyeing the inside of your jacket like it’s a baked potato and I haven’t eaten in five hours. That’s a lot of hours.

It isn’t the stitching, or lining, the fact that you’re wearing it, or the texture of the outside I understand as I patronisingly pat you down, deciphering who your wife is. And there’ll certainly be a next one: the joke level quantity alone fills 50 dishwasher clean jam jars.

I pretend I won’t talk to you ever or later; you won’t be on my mind as YouTube playlists shuffle Fiona Apple songs. Oh, sailor. Even your friends think it’s me.